


o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms?

by percybysshes (kitmarlowed)



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 05:32:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8000368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitmarlowed/pseuds/percybysshes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Viscount Melbourne does not believe in much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	o what can ail thee, knight-at-arms?

 

The Viscount Melbourne does not believe in much.

That is the second greatest lie of this story.

 

 

It _is_ true, what he tells Emma en route to Kensington: he is tired of governing, for like most things it's grown dull, which he can't abide, and yet it's still the same amount of bloody hard work, which would be fine had he ever enjoyed it.

The Viscount Melbourne believes in the constitution of his country and he believes in justice, he believes very little in duty and even less in himself. It's a very short list.

And then, of course, the lightning strikes and he doesn't believe in fate but this might be it, the irony not lost on him: the weary brought to life by the young. The Queen smiles as if on afterthought and speaks her mind without filtering her words first through the net of civility he's so used to encountering outside his friends. She's trouble, he thinks, and he wants to witness her. Wants to see her set loose upon the old guard of the council, Parliament, the country.

His own zeal, sudden and earnest surprises him, makes it altogether too easy to volunteer himself. And, well, perhaps he shouldn't be surprised that his old bones want to stay near the fire as it ignites, he's been bitten before.

"When I require assistance," she says, strong though with hands clasped to hide their shaking, "I will ask for it." and he's done for, and he's hoping, and he's everything he hasn't been for years. Smiles, bows, leaves with a smile he can't shake as he rides.

But of course, the Viscount Melbourne does not believe in much.

 

 

The privy council meets and bows, though precious few of them mean it. And Melbourne knows these men, he knows their thoughts, he knows their friends, he knows how they see her as she stands then sits before them. Just a child and worse: a woman. They prejudge, they find her wanting, they do not  _know._

So he acts as her encyclopaedia, so he stands by her side, so he watches as she refuses to let the men in her life rule and undermine her.

And when he murmurs "I believe you know this one," he watches as she tilts her head ever so slightly, bears teeth when she speaks.

Queen Victoria, she names herself and he breathes it back to her, incapable of looking upon anything but her for too long.

They underestimate her at their peril, he thinks, and (it's getting harder and harder to remember that) the Viscount Melbourne does not believe in much.

 

 

 

"So many windows," she remarks and Melbourne wonders how years in the dark have formed her, put the steel in her backbone.

She runs through the halls and he strides to keep up and he feels himself losing the battle as he indulges her. All of a handful of moments and he's come to terms with wanting her, he's had to, but that darkest evil from Pandora's jar stirs up when she smiles at his teasing.

It is, he thinks when she broaches the subject again, a dangerous thing to be needed.

"But you are still willing?" his Queen says, and well Melbourne has no excuses now, says, "I would be honoured, ma'am." 

 

 

 

Emma knows. Emma knows every expression he works hard to make opaque and everything he means when he says something else. Her eyes flicker between his and the Queen's, small smile smug when he teases.

Later, "You are not so tired of governing, then, William," says Lady Portman and Melbourne laughs, raises his hands, says "I am guilty as charged," says, "she is-"

He hadn't thought he was this obvious, thought that his awareness of this as impossible, as foolish, as dangerous, was enough to shield him and to hide how fast he fell, how many bones he broke. He glances to the Queen, gets his eyes caught by the curve of her lips as she smiles with only half the sincerity she allows him, looks away.

Emma is grinning, says, "Oh, William. Her first favourite."

She isn't the first to have commented on it and alright, so what if perhaps William Lamb believes desperately in one thing.

 

 

 

 

"The Duchess is concerned," Conroy sneers and Melbourne almost hits him, almost says of course she is, thanks any power that they live in modern times where favourites' necks are in less danger: he's not to be hanged under a bridge for this crime.

He goes for the throat, takes no prisoners -- as a man who has never seen further than his own self interest -- and has never meant anything less than when he bids the vile man good day. Melbourne thinks there's a man whose neck deserves a noose and then tries not to dwell on how readily his own hands twitch to do it -- if he cannot have her, at least he will ensure that her gaolers will not have her again.

 

 

 

 

"Mama came to see me this morning," says the Queen and Melbourne urges on his horse, sighs patiently, says “Yes?" and allows her to tell him nothing he does not already know.

“It could be misconstrued," he tries, but it won't take, Melbourne knows her well enough. She changes the subject, they ride back.

But it is a problem, there is the fatal flaw, they call her Mrs Melbourne and he flinches every time. She deserves far better things to be said of her, regardless that none of it seems to affect her but for a narrowing of those bright eyes. It is his duty to steer her way through this without incident, not to be the incident that foils the plan.

Then again, he believes that even if he tried to will his legs to walk away from her they would not obey and his suggestions sound half-hearted even to himself.

The Viscount Melbourne believes in stopping trouble before it starts, and yet. And yet.

 

 

 

 

He knows nothing quite so tedious as dances nowadays, without Caro, without a partner it's just talking and he has enough of that in the House - doesn't need music for it.

But she smiles at him when she sees him, even busy as she is with the Grand Duke spinning her as if it's his aim to dizzy her enough to look passed his behaviour. He grits his teeth, turns away.

"You have been missed," says Emma at his side and Melbourne smiles, muses that she is managing and gets a speaking look for his troubles, and then of course the Duke's hands wander and he hears the murmurs and, well, if they've noticed what harm can his hushed instruction do?

"I thought perhaps you were cross with me," says the Queen, and she's eyelashes and perfume and champagne and he has a hand on her waist now, thinks perhaps this was a grave mistake, says "never" and knows it. And then they're dancing, and she's just the same and nothing like Caro.

She's smiling and a little drunken as she looks at him and breathes, "I wish I could dance with you every night," so sincere, guileless and beguiling and he's human, to hell with all, he's just a man. Her hand in his is small but it fits perfectly, she fits perfectly, every queenly bloody inch of her.

"You're very young," he says, for lack of any better arguments, and watches as her face falls for that fraction of second before she narrows her eyes and says, indignant, "I am 18, old enough to be Queen."

Then she softens again, tells him "You are not old, Lord M," and at the warmth of it, the name, he musters up the strength to find his sense of humour, says, "If only that were true," like it's a joke, like he's not wishing more than he ever has that he were someone else. That he were a young duke and worthy of her, a viable candidate.

He lets her go before he forgets how to. 

 

 

 

His Queen has had too much to drink, and when she disappears Melbourne only panics a little -- when she reappears and raises her voice he doesn't think much less panic, duty to mitigate front and centre. "The balcony, ma'am," murmurs just for her and she turns, goes, leads him.

"Perhaps you ought to retire for the evening, ma'am," says Melbourne to her hands, to her shoulder, to the space in air beside her head. "There's no harm in it."

"There is a great deal of harm in it, Lord Melbourne," she tells him, her voice a thin version of command, and then she laughs and uses his wrists to pull herself up onto the tips of her toes. "I don't want to retire," she's too close, "I want to dance with you," she's too much.

He wants nothing more than the same and he cannot have that, knows as she will come to know that inclination and duty are at odds far more than they are in alignment.

Silence stretches, moment into moment into moment, full of all the almost's and the world in which he relented, that fancy-free world wherein he takes her hands and keeps them.

The Viscount Melbourne knows it's his duty to stand firm, says "Not tonight," then remembers, "ma'am."

The Viscount Melbourne believes in his duty, and the Queen's unsteady footsteps click wordlessly away.

The list is getting longer.

 

 

 

 

"There are more delicate ways," says Melbourne the politician.

"I do know how painful a scandal can be," says Melbourne the man.

The Queen, as he'd thought she might, listens to neither.

 

 

 

 

Within a moment of the crown being placed on her head the vultures begin to circle, and yes, he _warned_ her but she is too precious, too genuine to inspire pettiness. He cuts to size any who would threaten her, knight allegiant, words where a sword would once have been.

"I'm afraid," she says.

He takes up his shield for her, says, "Courage."

 

 

 

 

Lady Flora Hastings dies, because she was always going to and because the world is cruel. Lady Flora Hastings dies, and Melbourne finds the Queen staring at nothing in an empty room.

He supposes now is as good a time as any, bears his soul in the guise of counsel and hopes she doesn't notice.

"In you, I have found a reason to continue," he says but the Viscount Melbourne doesn't -- ah, well.

 

 

 

 

She is the Queen of England. He reminds himself of this every time he sees her, not because she does not look the part, but because of all he imagines in his time out of the public eye and out of hers: that she was not. She is the Queen of England and he lives at her pleasure, he  _ serves  _ at her pleasure in gentle mockery of vows he has said before. He is pledged Prime Minister of the House, and then she smiles at him and it is all he can do not to forget it all.

 

The Viscount Melbourne believes in her, and so maybe the list is endless.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i went into this believing wholeheartedly that i was going to write something along the she-runs-away-with-him line and yet, here we are with a character study????? ok
> 
> hmu @ percybysshes on tumblr, and twitter for that matter.


End file.
